


This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land

by Lafa



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Ectobiological Incest, M/M, Minor Violence, Plot What Plot, Slurs, Underage Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafa/pseuds/Lafa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave would really like to get laid before he's doomed to a life of sprite induced celibacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so. I'm rereading Homestuck with a friend and I kind of got stuck on the idea of Dave and Bro being on LOHAC together during Davesprite's timeline. And then I needed to extend their stay to the point where I was comfortable with the age difference. And then I read Family Never Ends and it destroyed me and Bro turned into more of an asshole than I meant him to be.
> 
> I got myself a pretty rad beta, so thanks to Ash for reigning in my nonsensical writing style. Still, here there be spelling errors and hella mischaracterization. Tell me if you see any mistakes, feedback is much appreciated, etc, etc.
> 
> Alternately titled 'Dave's First Rectal Exam'.

Your name is **DAVE STRIDER** , and you have royally **FUCKED UP**.

This fuckup is so royal, it's developed genetic diseases from inbreeding and a taste for corgis.

“HA HA HEE HEE HOO HOO,” Calsprite cackles, and you grimace at his luminescent orange face.

“I know you can talk, you piece of shit. Where’s Bro? If you’re here I’m sure he’s skulking around somewhere.” 

You barely keep yourself from jumping as something thuds to the ground next to you, shiny, black, and smelling like singed meat.

“Skulking?”

You turn, surprise concealed behind dark sunglasses and an expertly constructed wall of stoicism. Bro stands over you, unchanged since the last time you saw him (a week ago) and the first (sixteen years, if you count post-apocalyptic cyberspace gameplay, which you do). His hat is the same one he’s worn your entire life, though its faded over the years, singed on one corner sometime in the last three. His clothes are the same, Adidas holding up far better than your Chucks, whose soles have melted down from the heat. They're getting pretty close to unwearable, and by most standards, you've already crossed that line many times over. You won’t have to worry about wearing shoes soon enough. Or having a dick. 

You try not to think about it. That’s definitely part of the problem.

The only noticeable difference are the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, which you can only see when he turns at the right angle. 

“Carapace? You _do_ know how to treat a lady,” you put a hand over your heart and swoon. Bro snorts, is about to say something before your freaky pile of puppet dong excuse for a sprite starts laughing again.

“HA HA HOO HOO HEE - ,” his laughter cuts off with a snap of Bro’s fingers. Cal flickers, smooth body pixelating, momentarily distorted before appearifying to some far reach of LOHAC to do whatever Sprites do. You’ll know soon enough. 

Bro sits down next to you, feet dangling off the edge of the skeleton of a building that never was. 

“Prototyping the kernel with Cal was probably the worst decision I've made yet.”

“S’what you get for listening to your retarded friends.” Bro breaks an arm off the imp, cracks it open at the joint like a crab. The flesh inside is white. 

You don’t reply. A hot, dry wind blows off the sea of lava below, prickling your skin. Since arriving, you've been in a state of perpetual first degree burn wherever you’re not covered by clothes. You blister and peel and bleed and your lips crack and you hate it. You’d think you would be used to it, living in Houston, but even your beloved Coppertone is rendered ineffective when there’s no sun to protect against. Thank fuck you were able to alchemize some Carmex. 

The sky above you is smoggy and dark.

“You notice the glitches get worse every time he flits off somewhere?” You ask, as Bro hands you a piece of meat. He chews loudly and without any sense of decorum, then shrugs. You look back to the greasy shell in your hand and resignedly take a bite. It tastes vaguely smoky and bland. You don’t really need to eat in the game, just like you don’t need to sleep, or piss, or take a shit, if you don’t think about it. But hunger gnaws at you all the same, and if you stay awake for long enough, things start to get kind of weird. Bad weird. Since there was only shitty swords in your fridge when your apartment was sent into the Medium, you didn't have much in the way of food. Rose sent you codes for stuff when you asked, when you felt like you were going to eat your own leg from the hunger (at that point, you’d resolved there wasn't a lot to do but learn as much about the game as you could, decided to see how long you could go without). You’d found that alchemized food tastes distinctly off, and attempting to make it better by combining ingredients will only get you the least appetizing option imaginable. It’s also a lot of work. The novelty wore off soon after you found out John and Jade were dead. 

That’s when Bro showed up. You guess because he’s some sort of NPC the underlings don’t turn into grist when he kills them. Even after three years in this hellhole, the mechanics of Sburb don’t make much sense to you. Rose has always been more invested in figuring them out anyways. The GameFAQs page is _Ulysses_ length at this point, even though you’re pretty sure what she’s written won’t be there when you skip back. 

You wonder if her chalk imps taste different. 

You could always go for the consorts. You had fried gator one summer, the month before Katrina hit, when you and Bro drove over to Louisiana for a gig in New Orleans. There are a lot of those crocodiles though, and they’re such a pain in the ass you’re not sure the payoff is worth the trouble. After the stock exchange fiasco you mostly leave them to their own devices. 

“You think the game knows this is a doomed timeline? It could be prioritizing. Otherwise whatever ‘Reckoning’ thing we've weaned out of Cal and Jaspers would have happened already. In that case the connection’ll keep lagging until the server crashes. Wonder if it matters if me and Rosie are here or not.”

The noise of your land fills Bro’s silence. The steel structure beneath you creaks disquietingly, the magma bubbles with soft, wet sounds, gears turn with the heaving scrape of metal .

“It could fuck with your abilities if you wait long enough. You might spawn into a wall or some shit.” 

You push your glasses farther up the bridge of your nose. “Yeah.”

***

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

TG: what do you think it will be like  
TG: fusing with seppucrow i mean

TT: I don’t know, Dave. The second tier prototyping does seem to take the dominant role. Either way you’ll be getting in touch with your avian side.

TG: i’m going to look like big bird  
TG: i’m going to be a big feathery asshole who pops up at inopportune moments and traumatizes little kids

TT: Did Big Bird scare you as a child?

TG: i mean  
TG: of course he didn't scare me  
TG: but like objectively speaking you have to admit he’s a little creepy  
TG: not as bad as alf though screw whoever made that fucker

TT: Your brother won’t mind.

TG: dude can we not bring his thing for puppets into this

TT: You started it.

TG: wow rose you are the epitome of maturity like don’t mind me i’m just having an existential fucking crisis here but at least someone’s keeping score

TT: Dave.

TG: what

TT: They need a sprite they can depend on to tell them what they need to know. They need to win the game.  
TT: They need you.

TG: i know fuck  
TG: just swoop in save the day nbd  
TG: he better be fucking grateful  
TG: i better be  
TG: whatever

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

***

You don’t like going in your room. There are too many reminders of your life pre-Sburb. The photos you developed not long before entering the game are still hanging up. You’d like photographing LOHAC if you could bring yourself to pick up your camera, but after the second year in, you lost interest in almost everything you once enjoyed. For the first twelve months, you and Rose dedicated whatever time you had to advancing, learning the lore and the loopholes and the hidden parts of your planets, climbing your echeladders and collecting grist. 

When it seemed like you couldn't move forward anymore with your limited number of players, you spent your time churning out insane amounts of sbahj - wrote that entire arc on nachos you’d been planning.

And then you just kind of stopped. Bro and you mix some beats every now and then, but even that takes an effort you’re not up to give. Rose says you’re depressed. 

She’s probably right. 

***

“Your footwork is getting sloppy.”

You’re watching _Stop Snitchin_ for the umpteenth time, lounging on the futon in nothing but a pair of sweats. You've opted not to go out today. It’s infinitely more comfortable inside your cool apartment, where the fans still run and you can keep it dark so you don’t have to wear your shades. Bro’s off to your side, leaning on a wall, arms crossed. The epitome of a cool guy. You don’t turn away from the TV, but you make sure he knows you’re rolling your eyes when you reply, “whatever Bro.”

“I’m serious kiddo. Roof. Now.” 

Bro’s using his ‘if you don’t listen to me I’m going to beat the everloving shit out of you’ voice, and if you value your life, you should probably hop to. But at this point, you’re not really sure you do. Living in a doomed timeline will do that to you.

So you pursue it. 

“I fight literally all the time, there’s no way I'm getting sloppy.”

Bro straightens up. “You rely too much on Caledscratch to do the heavy damage. You’re getting sloppy.”

“I don’t feel like strifing right now, dude.”

He’s already behind you by the time you tense, flash stepping across the room in a matter of seconds. You yelp embarrassingly loud when his hand shoots out to grab you by the nape of your neck. He drags you off the couch and into the kitchen, and you try to get your feet under you but it’s hard - you forgot just how much stronger than you he is. You hit your shins on the stairs and you swear and struggle but he just shakes you like a kitten and pushes you faster up the steps. You’re too fucking old for this.

Bro shoves you into the door at the top of the stairwell, undoes the latch, and lets go just in time for you to fall through. You gracelessly stumble a few steps before momentum carries you down the rest of the way, and you skid across the hot concrete. It scrapes against your bare shoulder, gritty and painful and you just know you’re going to be picking out bits of gravel when this is done.

“We’re doing it man,” Bro says. “We’re making this happen.”

You grimace and push yourself up slowly. Updraft from the magma below stings your eyes. You wish you were wearing your shades. It’s so hot you’d be sweating bullets if it didn't evaporate right off your skin. Sometimes you find little bits of salt stuck to you, left behind.

You equip your ½ bladekind strife specibus. With the familiar hilt of Caledscratch in your hands, you sink into position easily, raising the broken blade. 

“You fuckin’ deaf kid? We aren't doing swords today.” 

Yeah, you heard. And you’re choosing not to listen. You curl your lip and rush him, gratified to at least see an irritated twitch of eyebrow before he promptly wrecks your shit. 

Bro’s form flickers and a disturbance of the air around you is all the warning you get before he’s right there in front of you, a hairsbreadth away from getting gutted. You reel back in surprise, shifting your weight to your heels so you don’t run him clean through, putting yourself off balance. Bro likes to play this particular game of chicken because it’s one he knows he’ll always win. And on your part, it’s a mistake.

He grabs the wrist of your sword hand and twists; twists and you grit your teeth and groan in pain because you can feel the bones grinding against each other, your arm’s about to break, and he keeps twisting until your grip loosens and Caledscratch drops to the ground with a sharp _clang._

“I said no swords,” Bro growls in your ear and lets go. You figure you should have seen that coming.

You don’t anticipate the hit he lands while you’re still bent over from the last. His fist secures itself solidly in your stomach. You curl over as the air leaves you, and Bro dances back easily on his feet while you cough and try to catch your breath. There’s an all too familiar metallic taste in your mouth. You spit on the cement, a string of bloody saliva trailing from your lips. You glare at your brother. He hangs back, waiting for your next move. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and it comes away red.

Your arm hurts, but not half as bad as the time he pulled it out of the socket and made you put it back in. 

Bro is still a much better fighter than you, both in technique and physical prowess, despite how much you've grown in the past three years. You don’t have a chance in hell of beating him. You try again anyways.

He blocks your hits easily with his forearms. You've filled out but you’re still short by most standards. The height difference makes it hard to hit his face. You are particularly proud of the nick in his otherwise regal nose, one of the few times you've ever managed to land any type of intransient damage. You, on the other hand, bear the mark of many strifes.

The next time you swing, your fist meets nothing, because Bro’s dropped down into a crouch and swung a leg out to sweep your own from under you. You fall, catching your weight badly. Pain shoots up your arm.

“You need to widen your stance,” Bro says, standing again. 

You curl your fingers in so he won’t step on them. 

“You can’t hold your ground if your center of gravity isn't any bigger than your skinny ass.”

He retreats again, waiting for you to collect yourself. This time, when you go for him, you keep your feet wide apart and when he boxes your ears, you manage to keep your footing despite the disorienting ringing in your head. You push past the feeling, recovering faster than he must have expected because you slam a fist into his solar plexus and duck in close so he can’t deflect the punch that grazes his cheekbone. You think it hurts your hand more than it does him. 

Bro holds still and looks down at you from under the edge of his glasses, bright amber eyes peeking out from beneath white lashes.

“Hold your fist tighter, you limp wristed faggot,” he sneers, “You always did have sissy hands.” 

Something close to shame wells up inside you, and you almost don’t catch the flush that threatens to crawl its way up your neck. Bro takes your momentary lapse of attention to wrap his hands around your head and smash his forehead into yours. 

_“FUCK!”_ You shout around the splitting pain. Your vision goes spotty and you stumble, hands pressed to your brow. 

“Pay attention,” he says, hands clapping down on your shoulders. You’re stunned enough to go down easy. The thin cotton of your sweatpants doesn't do much to protect your knees. You try to get up but Bro meets your attempts with equal measure, pushing you down, cheek in the asphalt, flipping you over and pinning you there with his knee digging into your chest.

You don’t manage to get an arm up in time to deflect his fist. Your eye will be purple tomorrow.

He pulls back for another go, and you squirm until you get a leg free, pulling it back to kick him viciously in the nuts. Bro grunts in pain but fights against the automatic reaction to shield himself and presses his kneecap further into you.

“Cheap shot, brat,” Bro spits, and that must have really pissed him off, because he grabs a fistful of your cornsilk hair, lifts up, and bashes the back of your head against the cement. _Fuck,_ that hurts, it feels like he’s going to pull your scalp off and you think your head might be bleeding and you can’t really see straight. You blindly reach up with your hands and sink blunt nails into your brother’s skin when you find him, scratching the sides of his face savagely. Your fingers catch on the sharp edge of his shades and they’re knocked off his face. It will take a few second for his eyes to adjust. 

You don’t waste it. You need to end this soon; your stamina’s low, you’re dizzy and feeling the hits you take harder as the fight drags on. 

You wrench your arm free from his grip and shove him to the side, throwing your body into it so it’s easier to get him under you - you can’t hope to keep him there with weight alone. This is what drives you to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze. Both of you know there's no intention behind it. Bro tries to pull your hands off and you press your thumbs down into the dip below his neck until his mouth opens in a silent gasp for air and he finally holds a hand up. You know he could stop you from strangling him if this were real, but the gesture counts for something.

Bro is always the one to decide when you've finished. 

You roll off, landing heavily on the pavement. Your eye is already swelling up and there’s an acute pain in your arm whenever you move it and you feel like someone chaos dunked your head. 

Your harsh pants drown out your brother’s own quiet, controlled breathing. When the blood stops pounding in your ears and your heart slows to its normal rate, an unnerving silence falls around you like a shroud and the hairs on the back of your neck raise. At some point during your fight, the gears on your planet stopped turning.

It’s time for you to go. 

***

The pink welts on Bro’s face have settled themselves into thin lines, scabbing wherever your nails managed to draw blood. You keep your eyes trained on them as he dabs arnica onto the ring of your eye, lightly rubbing it into the delicate skin. 

He leans back, scrutinizing his handy work. You know it’s nothing compared to the number he did, but you’re still gratified to see the chokehold left its mark. Bro puts the first aid kit away and you climb down from your seat on the kitchen counter. 

“You’re wasting time. You need to leave,” Bro says. 

You know he’s right. It’s obvious the timeline won’t keep for much longer whether you’re in it or not. But your sense of injustice is more acute now than ever, and there’s a well of untapped anger in your chest; anger at your dead friends (terrified of how many more you might lose), anger at being the butt of some vast cosmic joke, from knowing more than anyone the inescapably lethal nature of your destiny. You want to lash out, and he’s good for it. 

You open your mouth to argue, but Bro sees the twist of your expression and cuts you off.

“Is the alpha timeline and this one that different? You’re damned either way. It doesn't matter if you’re alpha Dave or a sprite, you’re never going to make music or comics or films and you’re never going to be famous and you’re never going to study whatever the fuck you study when you’re into dead shit. Earth is gone. You need to stop fucking around here with your nancy boy identity crisis because it’s not going to happen. Get over yourself, kid. I didn't raise you this way.”

You chew the words around in your mouth before you spit them out, giving voice to something that's been at the back of your mind since all this started. “You knew, didn't you?” 

Bro looks at you like you’re stupid. “I found you in a meteor site after you blew up my favorite record shop. Of course I knew. Why did you think I taught you to fight?”

“I just thought you were a weird fucking dude!” You yell, losing whatever shred of temper you have left. Not for the first time, you wish you had your shades on. At least you’re on equal footing in that respect. “You _asshole,_ ” you lunge forward to twist your fists into the collar of his shirt. “My entire life you _knew,_ and you - ”

He slaps you across the side of your face and your head snaps to the side.

You kiss him. 

It’s messy and fast; a meeting of skin and nothing more. He shoves you off as soon as it starts. You stumble back. 

“What the fuck, Dave,” he says and wipes his mouth. 

He hardly ever uses your name except to make shitty _2001_ references.

“Shut up,” you say, cold all over, trying to reign in your emotions. You’re not really sure about this, but it looks like the sand in your hourglass is running out and you don’t feel like dwelling on the moral ramifications of what you’re about to do. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it before. When you’re one of only two people on a planet, of course you’re going to think about it. “I’m sixteen years old and I’m about to turn into a sexless fucking parakeet, at least let me lose my virginity first so I don’t feel like a complete failure. Besides,” you add bitterly. “You’ll probably cease to exist once I leave, so what’s the fucking problem?”

For the first time in your life, Bro looks unnerved. “I’m twice your age.”

“ _That’s_ what you’re taking issue with?” You sneer. “I don’t care. I’m never going to get to do anything I should have had the chance to because of this game. It’s the least you can do.” 

You can count the number of times you've seen your brother without shades on one hand. His eyes are a harsh sunburnt orange, austere and exacting, the filigree of eyelashes around them an interesting dichotomy. He keeps staring until you grow impatient and press harder, aiming where you know he’ll fold. 

“C’mon, when was the last time you got laid? Don’t be a pussy.” 

Bro’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “You’ll leave if I agree?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” 

You feel a rush of vindication - That’s two underhanded wins in one night.

Your Bro’s not a bad looking dude. You would probably have a lot more compunctions about jumping the incest gun if he were. That in and of itself is pretty problematic, but you’re not one for psychoanalysis when you’re about to get lucky for the first (and only) time. 

He’s aged well. His hair is coarser than yours, his jaw stronger, his face sharper around the eyes and edges.

You just hope he knows what he’s doing. Judging by the ones he used to bring home, you’re not too worried.

He takes you into the living room and tells you to sit on the couch. 

Your muscles are sore from the fight and the scrape on your shoulder stings under the Joy Division shirt you threw on (you may have given up on a lot of the pretenses you used to shield yourself with, but irony isn't one of them. You don’t even _listen_ to Joy Division. That’s the point). You're feeling strung out, too many adrenaline surges in too little time. 

Still, your heart rate picks up again. Your skin feels too tight. Your palms sweat. Bro stands over you and looks at you like you’re an ugly child, the way he did when you were young and did something he didn't like. You can’t decide if it’s better or worse without the shades. 

He kneels between your legs and all the blood in your head rushes south. He puts his big hands on your thighs and the heat from his palms seems to sear through soft cotton. Your throat clicks when you swallow.

“Not gunna kiss me first?” You ask, try to play it off as flippant. Bro’s wide mouth pinches at the corners like he doesn’t want to, but he does. Briefly. He takes your chin in hand and pulls your down to him, thin lips meeting yours, and even in this he manages to be impersonal. But it’s your first time actually kissing someone, and you like his warmth and the way he lets you lick into him, even if he isn’t as interested in sucking face with his brother as you are. You compulsively want to bite, but don’t. You’re unsure whether it would turn him on or if he would drop you right there for your impertinence. It’s not really worth the risk. 

Bro decides he’s finished kissing and goes back to what he was doing before. You lift your hips obediently when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sweats and pulls them down. They pool around your ankles. You’re not wearing anything underneath. You’re already hard from anticipation, but instead of paying attention to the erect penis in close quarters with his face, he chooses to look at the scar on your leg. 

It reaches from the bottom of one foot up to your knee, mottled skin climbing up the side of your calf, scar tissue shining an angry pink. You see him reach for it and grimace, manage a hoarse “don’t.”

He looks up but you can’t meet his eyes, so he touches it anyway. You figure you spend three years playing hot lava monster, you’re eventually going to burn yourself. You can’t say it’s a battle scar. You didn’t get it in a fight. You got it being your usual dumbass self, slipping and falling and screaming when your skin melted off. 

Finally he stops and you’re able to breathe again, covering up your lapse with, “are you going to help out here or should I just jerk myself off?”

You get a quirk of the lips for that. He finally gets around to doing what he’s supposed to, burying his face in the space between your legs and inhaling. Maybe he’s more into this than you thought. Bro mouths at the soft, velvety skin of your cock, working his way up. You dig your fingers into the couch to keep yourself from reaching for him. 

He takes the head into his mouth, tongues at beads of precum. You watch in fascination as he sinks down until your dick bumps the back of his throat. 

“Jesus fuck - where’s your gag reflex, dude? Did it take a fucking vacation in the Bahamas? I would file a missing persons report on that shit, screw the 24 hour wait - ,” your words choke off when Bro starts moving. His mouth is hot and wet and it feels fucking awesome. You groan, tilt your head back to stare at the ceiling because the sight of your brother sucking you off is a little too much to handle.

“Should've known you’d be good at this,” you laugh weakly. He pinches the inside of your thigh viciously and you gasp in surprise, hips stuttering forward. Ah, there it is. False alarm, Sheriff, no need to send out the dogs. Bro pulls off your dick and coughs. 

“Christ kid, you into that pain shit?” He flashes you a lewd smile, “you want me to spank you, all you gotta do is ask.”

You flush and deliberately don’t think about how much that thought appeals to you. “What is this, coffee hour? Get back to work,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. 

Bro snorts and does so, this time in earnest. It’s much better than anything you could hope to achieve with old lefty. The stimulation is almost overwhelming - You clench your fists until stubby nails cut into your palms, bite your bottom lip to keep from making sound. He might be blowing you but he’s still your Bro, and you’re hyper aware of any weakness you might show. 

The feeling builds fast. You’re sixteen and you’ve never done more than masturbate, of course it does. Your fingers and toes tingle and your thighs seize up and your thoughts go kind of fuzzy and you choke out “Bro,” in what’s supposed to be a warning but really just sounds like you moaning his name. 

You’re at the precipice when he backs off and squeezes the base of your dick, effectively stopping you from coming. You lie there, chest heaving, thoughts jumbled. You’re frustrated but there’s still too much euphoria rolling through you to realize it. He holds until you’re no longer toeing the line, lets go when he’s sure won’t finish.

“Prick,” you pant. He seems to enjoy your frustration.

“Lay on your stomach,” he says. He stands up and you can see that under his jeans he’s hard. Bro walks out of the room. You don’t know where he’s going, but you do what he asked you to. It's uncomfortable to be lying out like this, too exposed. You’re struck with the sudden fear he’ll leave you there, but dismiss the feeling. Despite the fact that Bro’s done nothing but fuck with you your entire life, you do trust him, in an odd familial way. You probably shouldn’t. You’re not even sure how you’re related anymore, just that you are. Christ, you guess he’s sort of your dad. That grosses you out a lot more than the idea of him being your brother. 

Across the apartment you hear the click of the door to your room closing. Bro comes back into sight, this time with a bottle of lube. 

“Did you hide that shit in my room?” You ask to distract yourself from the nervousness in your stomach.

“Yeah,” he replies, nonchalant. The futon dips with his weight as he climbs on, kneeling behind you. 

“That’s pretty sick.”

“Says the one of us who wants his big brother to fuck him.” 

“Says the responsible adult who agreed,” you snap back. You hear him uncap the bottle.

“Responsible?” He snickers and it goes straight to your painfully unattended dick. He snakes an arm under you and jerks your hips up and into him abruptly. The back of your legs rub against the denim of his jeans. You swallow thickly. He leans over until his chest is close, speaks lowly in your ear, “You done this part before?” 

“Nah.” 

Bro scoffs and you’re not really sure how to take it. The reason you never stuck your own fingers in your ass wasn’t that you were against the idea. It was more that you didn’t want to put up with your brother’s shit if he ever caught you at it. What with the skulking and the cameras there’s a better chance he would have than not.

“Pity,” Bro says, squeezing red lube onto his hands. You’re enveloped in the saccharine scent of artificial cherries. You’ll never be able to disassociate the smell.

“Maybe -” you cut yourself off, automatically tensing when he circles a sticky finger around your entrance. You take a deep breath before relaxing your muscles, grimacing at the foreign feeling of a finger in your ass when he presses in. You talk to distract yourself. You’re good at that.

“Maybe I just didn’t want you sent to jail for child pornography, ‘cause I don’t think for a second you wouldn’t put that up if you got it on tape.”

The feeling doesn’t take too long to get used to. You’re still not sure if it’s what you’d call pleasurable. 

“Plushrump has standards, kiddo. If there’s no puppet it’s not gunna’ be on there. Besides,” he adds another finger slowly, just when you’re feeling comfortable with the first. You grit your teeth. “If I was a r@ygold type of man, like hell I'd get caught. You know what happens to those guys in jail?” 

He pushes further into you, pursing his lips in concentration, crooking his fingers to press against a spot that makes you hot and shaky all over. 

“Fuck,” you whimper, unsteady. 

“There it is,” Bro says smugly.

It’s easier for you to relax when you’re getting something out of the prep, and when he finally puts a third finger in, it’s only mildly disagreeable. He only brushes against your prostate enough to get you going, and you reach for your dick when you get tired of his teasing, desperately needing something more. He bats your hand easily away and slaps your ass as a reprimand. 

“Dude, really?” you groan, unsettled and not entirely sure you didn’t like it. 

“What,” he dares you to argue. You don’t.

Bro pulls his fingers out and it feels odd to have them gone. You hear the sound of zipper teeth as he undoes his fly, and in your addled state you almost ask if you can turn around and do this on your back, but you think that might be pushing it. Doggy seems more his style, and that’s not even taking into account that he probably doesn’t want to be reminded who he’s fucking. You’ll just let him push your face into the futon and pretend you’re someone else and it’ll be nice and easy for everyone. 

That you’ve wondered what his face looks like when he comes isn’t something you pride yourself on.

You definitely have to see his dick though. It better be a fucking work of art, or you’re going to feel pretty put out over having bore the brunt of his male ego your entire life. Objectively you could give less of a crap if he has a nice package, but the rule of cool is there's got to be backup for all that posturing. 

Luckily, you’re not disappointed.

It’s not one of those disconcertingly big ones you see in pornos that’s more worrying than anything else, but it’s safe to describe as above average. A trail of blonde hair makes its way down from where Bro’s shirt has ridden up. He’s undressed no more than required, pushing his jeans down around his thighs.

“Didn’t I teach you not to stare? Shit’s hells of impolite.” He looks extremely satisfied with himself. It’s aggravating and kind of hot.

You don’t comment on the lack of any such lessons. “Just wanted to see if good dick runs in the family.” 

He grabs you by the hips, holding you steady. “You cool?”

You nod. “Ice cold.”

He snorts, knowing that’s the thing you’re farthest from. You clench your jaw as he starts pushing in, the feeling more than a little painful. He pauses after getting just his head in. 

“Chill out, little man,” he says, tone as close to gentle as you've ever heard it. 

“I’m trying.” You will yourself to relax but can’t seem to make it happen. One of Bro’s hands leaves your side and you feel fingers petting the soft hairs at the nape of your neck, placating. The gesture is distracting, incredibly intimate coming from him, and it unsettles you beyond anything else he’s done. It’s also really nice. When he moves forward it’s still disagreeable, but it works. 

He pushes in slow until you’re flush against him.

“Christ, you're tight,” he hisses through his teeth. He runs his hands over the bumps of your spine, up under your shirt to trace the lines on your skin from all the times his katana was faster than yours. Bringing those memories to the forefront of your mind while he’s fucking you shouldn’t push your buttons like it does. You’re starting to wonder if you get off on it, being shamed, humiliated. You spend so much time building yourself up, maybe it’s not such a surprise the opposite is what really gets you going.

He starts to move.

The amount of time Bro is willing to spend easing you through this has obviously run out, because he sets a punishing pace. His impatience hurts you more physically than anything else. This is the brother you’re used to. Civility isn’t something you’ve ever expected of him.

His breathing is heavy - something you’ve wanted to hear since a very young age, though not necessarily in this context. 

He rolls his hips at an angle that leaves you panting, nerves frazzled and heart beating like a startled animal, and he keeps hitting that spot until you’re a quivering mess. The slap of skin against skin is loud in your otherwise quiet living room. You keep biting your lips, unwilling to lose face. 

You’re close but Bro comes first. His spunk runs down your thighs, sticky and warm. He runs a hand through it and reaches around to get a good hold on your dick. His palm feels different than your own, slick, feverish, covered with calluses, and it only takes a few pumps before you’re spilling over his fingers and on to the slipcover. 

Through the lights popping behind your eyelids, you briefly wonder if this ever would have happened if it wasn’t for the game, if you hadn’t forced him to. You push the thought away as the last waves of your orgasm shudder through you.

Bro pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants, wiping his hand on his leg. You roll over, pulling your sweats back up around your legs. You stand, padding silently to the kitchen (determined to ignore the discomfort), and turn on the tap, waiting until the water is as cold as it will go before you fill a glass. You drink it and fill another.

Bro’s eyes are closed, and you take a moment to revel in one of the only moments he’s let his guard down around you; posture relaxed and mouth slightly open to regulate his breathing. You’re in bad shape next to him, pink and sweaty, hair clinging to your forehead. It’s still something.

His eyes half open, catching you staring.

“You’ll see me again,” he says.

You put the glass down on the counter, fingers leaving fast fading marks on the surface. Bro closes his eyes again.

“Not really,” you say, and do the same. 

You see it in your mind’s eye, the network of timelines spreading out before you. Choosing the right one is like an exceptionally complicated game of cat’s cradle. There’s one string among the many that glows particularly bright. When you pull it you feel the world outside your body break down and know that you’re gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching Fight Club and realized that Brad Pitt's Tyler Durden is pretty much Bro.
> 
> Happy 4/20 errybody.


End file.
